Rendezvous In Siena
by r4ven3
Summary: What happens when Harry receives an invitation from Ruth while she is still in exile? Of course, he can't ignore the invitation. Harry-centric in 12 chapters. Rating will increase later.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: I wrote the first 5 chapters of this rather quickly 5 months ago, and then got stuck. I came back to it 4-6 weeks ago, and gave it a middle and an end. Then I decided that the first chapter could be a one-shot, and maybe I should ditch chapters 2-12. Decisions, decisions. Here it is in its entirety, mostly Harry's internal life while he searches and waits for Ruth. Melancholy Harry is one of my obsessions. Not much plot, and what there is is a bit far-fetched. Enjoy anyway_**.

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><p>It had taken him such a long time to get to this place. It had taken six days of weaving across Europe, chiefly in trains, which he tolerated only marginally more than travelling by air. He would have preferred to drive, but the opinion had been that travelling by road would have rendered him vulnerable. He still disagrees. He likes to be in charge of how he travels from one place to another, and if this makes him a control freak, then so be it. He has plenty of anger at the ready for anyone brave enough to suggest such a thing.<p>

In truth, it had taken him almost two years to get here …... to this brick-paved square, where he sits under the shade of an umbrella, protected from the midday sun. It is still too early for him to be relaxing. At seventeen minutes to one o'clock, he is anything but relaxed.

He takes out his handkerchief, and wipes his forehead, already beaded with moisture. Normally he enjoys the heat, but a ripple of nervousness through his being has him sweating more freely than usual, and he doesn't want her first sight of him to be sullied by signs that he is not only balding and ageing, but also sweating under the Italian sun. He wears beige coloured chinos and a short-sleeved blue shirt. He is Mr Average Englishman, enjoying a break from an unpredictable English spring. His passport claims he is Harry Baldwin, wine merchant.

Looking for distractions, he gazes around the other tables, taking in a couple in their twenties, sharing a large icecream in a cone, a middle-aged couple staring wordlessly past one another while they sip their lattes, a group of four people – older than he, perhaps in their early seventies – speaking animatedly in Italian, a lone young woman, a short black coffee in front of her, crowd-watching. Each table tells a story …... of friendship, new love, love gone sour, hope, loneliness.

So, what story encapsulates his stocky figure, as he sits alone at his table? What do others see as they glance at him, sitting alone with his British newspaper open in front of him, a cappuccino close to his right hand, his fingers fiddling nervously with the spoon? Does he emanate hope, or pride, or happiness ….. or nothing at all? Is he a product of his job – all mystery, with emotions so deeply buried that his countenance is a blank canvas – or is a perceptive person able to see the measure of the man inside his skin? _She'd_ be able to read him. She always could, and she'd be able to read his current story in the time it takes her to say hello.

_Saudade_. It is a Portuguese word meaning that which is left behind after the object of one's love has left. It is a memory of love – now gone – a longing, perhaps a melancholy, an aching in one's heart, where once both hope and joy had lived in contentment and harmony. Sometimes he feels it dripping from him, through the pores in his skin, so that it pools at his feet, like melted snow. As closed as he is, he is sure _saudade_ can be seen on him, swirling around him, tying his heart in knots, closing him off to feeling anything at all which resembles hope, and lightness of being. His heart is not only closed for winter, it is closed for spring, summer, and autumn as well. But he has hope, and that is why he sits at this table …... waiting for what, only a week ago, had seemed unlikely, even impossible.

12.57

His heart rate increases slightly, and again he takes his handkerchief from his trousers pocket to wipe his face and neck. It is not yet hot, being May. The estimated maximum temperature for that day is 23 degrees, which is not hot at all. The estimated maximum temperature for London that same day is 15 degrees. Suddenly, he misses London, and all that is familiar to him. He is in his element there. London knows him, just as he knows London.

He is distracted by a young boy of around ten, running past with a small dog on a lead. The dog leads, while the boy follows. He is reminded of he and Scarlet. Scarlet is staying with Gertrude, his Swedish neighbour, and her husband, Bill. He hopes his little dog doesn't miss him too much. He doesn't know how long he'll be away from home. Just to be on the safe side, he has taken leave for a month.

1.04

He hopes the clock in the clock tower is running fast. He takes his phone from his pocket and checks the time. 1.03. Then he turns his left wrist to see the time on his wrist watch. 1.03. He'd set his wrist watch by his phone, so no surprises there.

The waiter who had attended him over twenty minutes earlier returns for his lunch order. He asks the waiter to come back once his companion has joined him. "I'm expecting someone," he says in Italian. "I'll order food when she arrives, but I'd like another coffee now," he adds, almost as an afterthought. He feels guilty having a whole table to himself, having bought only one cup of coffee.

The outside tables in the square are beginning to fill. Some people at an accompanying table had asked could they borrow one of the spare chairs from his table, and he had nodded. He only needs a chair for himself …... and a chair for her.

1.12

He is nervous …... and worried. What if she doesn't come? What if she has changed her mind? What if something has happened to her? What if she doesn't know he is here? What if her invitation to meet him – by encrypted email, using Malcolm's email account – was a trap? What if he has less than a day to live? Less than an hour?

All he asks is that he be able to see her again. Surely that is not too much to ask. He acknowledges in that moment – when he accepts he may have been drawn into a trap – that the pain of missing her has been only partially staunched by the responsibilities of his job. As his tired body sinks into his mattress each night, his last thought before sleep takes him is always of her.

His _saudade_ has made him careless, and a little foolish. Perhaps he is too desperate to see her. Perhaps she does not share his longing, his desperation.

1.19

He was always the punctual one, while for her, time was a necessary part of life's structure, but an annoyance, an interruption. She preferred her life to flow according to where her interests led her. Her mind was sharp and quick, and time more often than not was an obstruction. She had sometimes resented time. Time had cut short their relationship, their budding romance-that-never-was. In their case, time was a guillotine.

He looks around him, his eyes hidden behind the very dark lenses of sunglasses. While wearing them, he could be looking anywhere. He sees nothing which should not be in the square. He also can't see something which should. She is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she watches him from a square-side window, and she is disappointed by him. Perhaps her memories of him are tinted with her own brand of _saudade_.

1.24

He goes back to reading his newspaper, but he comprehends very little. The realist in him has entertained the probability of her not making the appointment on time, and the spurned lover is wondering whether this may be a game that she has set up. The romantic in him knows that the realist and the spurned lover are one and the same …... they are the hurt part of him – the part of him which emerges late at night when he is near sleep, forcing him to see his history with her as it really is. She was never his. In his heart they have become star-crossed lovers, while his mind knows that `they' were never meant to be. They never _could_ be. For a brief moment in time, they loved one another, and then she had to leave – perhaps forever. End of story.

_Grow up, Pearce_, he says to himself, as he again checks the time, this time on his wrist watch.

1.46

She's now over three quarters of an hour late. She's been late before, but only because of work, or a transport strike, or a bomb threat. When they had dinner together – almost two years ago now – she was a minute early. He'd been clock watching that evening as well.

He calls the waiter, and orders a small serving of mushroom risotto. This day, he will be eating lunch alone.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thank you to readers of this fic so far, and especially to reviewers.**_

_**I have upped the rating to accommodate this chapter, and later chapters. Adult activity (and yes, Harry is still alone!)**_

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><p>The man stays at his outdoor table in the square until 4 o'clock. He considers staying until 5, but he knows that would be foolish, and unnecessary. He'd had to leave his table twice for visits to the bathroom, and so had asked the people at the table next to him to watch should a young brunette woman arrive, searching the tables, looking for someone. The people at that table are Greek, and his Greek is rather good.<p>

"If you see her, please call her over, and tell her I'll be back soon," he'd said in Greek.

They'd nodded and smiled, and the two Greek men had nudged one another knowingly, while their women had watched the Englishman disappear inside the cafeteria, silently wondering why it was the man looked so sad. Was it this dark-haired woman who had broken his heart?

By 4, it is clear to him that she's not coming. At 8 minutes after 4, he leaves, and wends his way back to his hotel. As he walks, he keeps his eyes to the ground, counting the pavers as he goes. He doesn't wish to see Ruth in every woman he passes. When he is behind the locked door of his hotel room, he checks the private email account set up by Malcolm, but there is no email, and there are no messages on his phone. He slumps on to his bed, and considers heading to the nearest _taverna_. Twenty minutes later, he is still on his bed, lying on his back, his head on the pillow, his forearm over his eyes. The sun is bright in Siena, and even with the curtains drawn, the room is lighter than any room in his house in London in May.

But the brightness in his room does not lift his mood. He is used to keeping a lid on his feelings, but the prospect of seeing her again, even had it only been for an hour, or a few minutes, had opened his heart so that all the doubts and hurts could freely emerge, like wraiths from the mists of his memories.

Theirs had been a celibate relationship, but he'd held on to the hope that one day …... one day they may have become lovers. While in her presence his blood had surged, and his heart had thudded, his skin tingling with the unexpressed passion between them, and he could read in her eyes that her body had reacted as had his. Even now, as he lies on his bed, conjuring up a remembered moment between them, he feels his blood pumping faster, and his groin aching with wanting her. Even he knows that it is a strange and dangerous thing to lust after a memory. He slides his hand down the front of his trousers, and feels himself growing under his hand. In his opinion, seed spilled in a quick act of self-gratification is never a good idea, even though, since he'd begun loving her, the majority of his orgasms have been experienced while he is alone. He removes his hand, and tries to will his body to relax, but his body is not cooperating.

He lifts himself off the bed with a groan. Before he heads to the shower, he unzips his trousers, draping them over a chair, sighing with relief as his erection is freed. Next it's his shirt, and then his underwear. He holds his cock in his hand, enjoying the heat of it, the hardness of it, as he crosses the carpet to the bathroom. He should not judge the reactions of his body like he does. His hardness is telling him he is alive, healthy (healthier than he has a right to be), and able to satisfy a lover without the aid of drugs of any kind. It's just that the only lover he wants is so elusive in life that she has taken up residence in his imagination.

He welcomes the heat of the water in the shower as it battles with the heat in his groin. He is now rock hard, and in need of release. These moments of need are accompanied by long days and nights of missing Ruth. Not long after she'd left London, he'd visited bars and picked up women, purely for the purpose of acts of meaningless sex. Over the space of six months or so, he had gone home with around eight different women. Not one of them had been more to him than a warm body to sink himself into, and to lose himself inside for a few brief moments of much-needed release. All had told him he was an amazing lover, and that had made him feel good – even worthy - but only for the moment. He'd come inside them, then lay beside them for a few minutes, after which he'd dressed and gone home. After each encounter, he'd fallen asleep spent, but feeling sad and more than a little dirty. He'd seen none of them a second time. He'd told them his name was John. He had forgotten their names by the morning after he'd been with them. He'd used those woman in an attempt to exorcise his longing for Ruth. In the end, all he'd been left with was his longing for the woman he still loved.

He is standing under the water, the needles of heat stinging his scalp and shoulders. Slowly, he leans his forehead against the tiles, and closes his eyes. It is while he's alone under the shower that he thinks of her in a different way, in the way they'd never been with one another. He admits to himself that his thoughts of her while he's showering are not pure, or chaste. He'd wanted more from her, but he'd been prepared to wait for her to want him as much as he wanted her. He imagines her in the shower with him, her rounded body wet all over, rivulets of water dripping from her nose, her chin, and each breast. In his mind he sees himself lapping the water from her chin, her breasts, her hips, and between her legs - his tongue, his lips devouring her skin. He imagines kissing her, his tongue finding hers, running his hands over her curves, kissing her breasts, sliding his fingers inside her while she pants his name. He opens his eyes, and looks down to see his cock, harder than ever, and throbbing. Again he closes his eyes, and imagines she is with him. It is she caressing his chest, and then his stomach, running her fingers down to his balls, rolling them around between her fingers, teasing his cock with a light touch of her fingernail. It is she feathering her fingertips along his inner thighs, away from his groin, and then back again, so that he almost cries out with need. In his imaginings, he'd grasp her wrist, and place her hand on him, showing her with a smile into her eyes, that he'd like it were she to grasp him, her fingers closing around his girth. `I like it like this,' he'd say. Then he'd lean against her as she stroked him – slowly at first, and then faster, harder, squeezing him until …... It is when he comes against the tiles in the shower that he calls out her name …... shouts it sometimes. He leans his forehead against his folded arms, and sighs the last of his orgasm. By this time, he is usually close to tears, which he holds back, as he finishes off his shower, cleaning the tiles of the evidence of his release, before turning off the water. He steps from the shower feeling little other than regret, laced with a considerable amount of shame. He can't imagine that Ruth would be flattered by what had just occurred while he'd showered, but he feels he has little option.

He is so close to her, and yet he has no idea where she is. Being this close to her – if in fact he is close to her – is infinitely more painful than being in London, knowing she is long gone, and far away.

It is just after seven o'clock when his phone rings. The only person who has the number to that phone is Malcolm.

"Yes, Malcolm," he says.

"Harry," Malcolm says, and he can hear the seriousness in the tone of his voice, "I think we may have a problem."


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later, Harry is back in the brick-paved square. He had arrived early – at midday – just in case. He needed to keep an eye on all entrances to the square. There are four of them, but many more if you consider the doorways which lead on to the square. He is at the same cafeteria, but not the same table. This time he has chosen one which is close to the wall of the cafeteria, and he sits with his back towards the wall, so that he can see the whole square from behind his sunglasses. Occasionally, he glances up at the windows and balconies of the buildings which abut the square. One whole side of the square is a residential building, and on a balcony on the second floor, a woman of around forty, dressed in nothing but bra and pants, is draping her washing over the balcony. He smiles in her direction, but she doesn't look his way, and none of the other diners appear to have noticed her. He considers counting all the doors, windows and balconies from which a sniper could be watching him, but decides against it. He wishes to enjoy this day, and if it is to be his last day on earth, then that is more reason for him to relax into it.

The waiter has recognised him, and as he takes Harry's order, he remarks that perhaps his lady will come today.

"The sun is so lovely, who can resist it?" the young man says in his accented English.

"I hope she does, also," Harry replies, smiling. Harry hopes she arrives on time – at one o'clock – and that she is not afraid. If she is afraid, then they are both in trouble.

As he waits, he contemplates his phone conversation with Malcolm the evening before.

"I received an email in the private email account. It was from Ruth, but it was unencrypted. She would never do that," Malcolm added.

"I agree. Ruth is thorough, and would never take that risk. Have you any ideas …...?"

Harry had felt his heart tighten as he'd imagined Ruth being held captive …... by sweaty, mean, angry men - men who would think nothing of using a woman for anything at all.

"The obvious answer to that is perhaps someone has Ruth, and has been trying to flush you out. Whoever they are, it is most likely you they want, and they see her as the best means for them to do that. I take it she didn't turn up."

"No. I stayed until 4, and there was no sign of her."

"In the email, she apologises for not meeting you. Her language is rather specific, and …. formal. For instance, she says, `I hope you were not unduly inconvenienced by my not meeting you today, but I was detained.' What does that sound like to you?"

"I'd call it Regency speak, and that would mean that it _is_ Ruth writing it, but she is trying to warn me."

"Had she wanted to warn you, wouldn't it have been better had she encrytped the email, and written openly to you?"

"Perhaps. But perhaps she suspects the email account of being hacked."

"Harry, this account cannot be hacked. That's what makes it a safe account."

"How sure are you of that?"

"99.9% sure."

"What about the point one of a percent?"

"I suppose that is the unknown part, the part where someone, somehow, gets access to the account."

Harry had hesitated, thinking of scenarios in which Ruth may have unwittingly given away the details of the safe email account.

"Malcolm," he says at last, "what are the chances of the account being hacked – perhaps by someone monitoring Ruth's keystrokes?"

"I've been thinking along those lines, too. It's possible someone has hacked into Ruth's computer – or the one she uses – remotely."

"So, why doesn't she go to an internet café, or a library?"

"Perhaps she's not free to do that."

"So ….. if she's not free to visit an internet café, how is it she's free to meet me?"

"She didn't meet you, though, did she?"

And that was when a shiver passed across Harry's scalp, and then down his neck, and all the way down his spine. This is his greatest fear …... that the woman he loves, has never stopped loving, may be in danger. He also knows that his conversation with Malcolm had ignited all his fears for Ruth, and perhaps that is not a good thing.

On this day, another clear sunny day, Harry sits at his table with his cappuccino in front of him, and he watches. He has not brought a newspaper, since he has no need of a distraction to occupy him. This time he is watching - from behind his sunglasses - the balconies, windows, doors, the alleyways between the buildings, the couple sitting at the table next to his, the small boy with a dog.

The boy with the dog?

"_Ciao, rigazzo_," he calls to the boy, and the boy stops, despite the pull of the dog on his lead.

Harry asks the boy about the dog – he notices it is a different dog – and the boy quickly rattles off something about walking his aunt's dog. Harry asks why the boy is not in school, and the boy answers with the Italian equivalent of `school is rubbish'. He asks can he touch the dog, and the boy shrugs, then nods. Harry ruffles the dog around its neck, and then scratches it behind its ears. While one hand is scratching, the other is feeling around the collar. Harry then pats the dog, thanks the boy, and calls `_Arrivederci_' after the boy, as he runs off, following the dog.

Harry waits until the boy has left the square, and then he drops the small black electronic device he'd pulled from the dog's collar, and as he pretends to look for it under the table, he grinds it into the bricks under his feet with the sole of his shoe. He suspects it was a device for recording vision, and perhaps also sound.

It is less than ten minutes later that he remembers reading an article in a London newspaper about electronic homing devices being attached to dogs' collars, should the animal wander off, or be stolen. He suspects he may just have destroyed that small dog's tracker. He experiences a moment of embarrassment, and decides he will never tell anyone what he has just done. He puts it down to spying over-exuberance, as well as not keeping up with the latest surveillance techniques. After all, he has technicians to take care of that.

He looks up to the clock tower to see it is 12.59. He sighs heavily, and then his gaze falls to the woman standing on the steps of the clock tower building. He can't help himself. He smiles broadly, and his heart begins beating rapidly inside his chest.

She doesn't yet appear to have seen him, so he indulges himself in a few moments of blatant Ruth-watching. Oh, how he has missed being free to gaze upon her unseen. Her skin is tanned, so that she seems much younger than her thirty-eight years. Her hair is a little longer than when he's last seen her, and she has allowed it to fall freely to her shoulders, its natural curl framing her face. She is wearing a multi-coloured skirt in blues and greens, and tucked into the skirt is a light green shirt. On her feet she wears sandals. He wills her to come closer, so that he can gaze at her feet. And her eyes. Unlike him, her eyes are unshaded.

It is then that she sees him. The clock has already struck one o'clock, but he was watching her when it struck the hour, and so he'd barely heard the clock. As she approaches, he sees a smile on her lips, but her eyes are serious …... and to him, they appear troubled, worried. He has a piece of paper in the pocket of his trousers, and on that paper is written his phone number, the words, `absolutely safe', and under it, at the bottom of the note paper, he has written, as an afterthought, `H xx'. Just in case they are unable to speak freely, he wants her to know how it is he still feels about her.

As she approaches his table, he stands, walks around the table, and meets her, his hand outstretched.

"Hello, Emma," he says. "It's wonderful to see you …. again."

He lets go of her hand, and steps closer, both hands resting lightly on her hips, while he draws her nearer, and kisses her cheek. Perhaps his lips remain on the skin of her cheek for longer than absolutely necessary. He pulls away a little, one hand still resting on her hip, and then she surprises him. She steps closer to him, places one hand on his chest, and reaches up to kiss him on the lips. Before he has a chance to take it all in, she has drawn her lips away from his, but his own lips are left to tingle deliciously from the touch of her own.

"It's so good to see you," she whispers. "I thought I'd greet you in the same way we parted."

"Like bookends," he says, equally as quietly, and feeling bolder still, he pulls her close to him, and places his mouth close to her ear.

"Are you wired?" he asks, his voice a whisper.

She shakes her head very slightly.

"Are you being watched?"

"I don't think so," she whispers back.

"So, you can speak freely."

Ruth pulls her head away from his, but not before she kisses his cheek, and then very briefly rubs her cheek against his own. She then looks at him, her eyes wide.

"I'm not sure, but to be on the safe side, I think we should exercise caution."

Reluctantly, Harry steps away from her, and the hands of both of them once again drop to their sides. He pulls out a chair for her, so that her back will be facing the square, and from where he will be sitting, he can keep an eye on the goings-on in the square. Harry then notices her take a folded newspaper from inside her bag. She very deliberately places the folded newspaper on the table in front of her, and then drops her bag on top of the newspaper. She then sits, and Harry follows her, sitting in his own chair. They have only just settled themselves at the table when the waiter appears at Harry's side.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you ready to order?" the waiter asks, in his perfect, but accented English.

Harry notices the waiter eyeing off Ruth, and he experiences a stirring in his belly, this time it's one of jealousy.

"What is your name?" Ruth asks him, flashing him one of her most brilliant smiles.

"My name is Guido, and I am …... at your service."

"Risotto?" Harry asks her, smiling at her openly.

Ruth nods to Harry, and then smiles up at Guido. "Two of the same risotto I had two days ago," he says, "and another coffee for me, and a …... tea?" Ruth nods. "A tea for the lady."

The waiter leaves, taking Harry's empty coffee cup. Harry is surprised when Ruth reaches across the table, and covers his hand with her own.

"Smile at me as though we are lovers meeting after a long absence," she says quietly, her lips barely moving. She is smiling at him broadly, her eyes full of love for him. Harry smiles back, and turns their hands, so that his is on top of hers.

"Ah …..." she breathes, her expression playful, "you are a man who likes to be on top."

Harry's eyes widen. Is this _his_ Ruth? Or is she playing a part, and is someone listening in to their conversation?

"The waiter …... Guido," she whispers, dropping her eyes, so that he has to lean forward to hear her. "He is with us."

"How do you know?"

"He gave the correct answer. When I asked him his name he said, `at your service'."

Harry grimaces, but squeezes Ruth's fingers in his. "Sounds a little too James Bond for my liking."

"It was not my idea. There is a plan …... for me to get away. I will need your help."

Harry nods, suddenly afraid for her. This is not about to be a normal, everyday operation of extraction. This is Ruth, and he is already afraid for her safety. He has an enormous investment in her remaining safe. Were something – anything at all – to happen to her …... he would not be able to go on, at least, not in the way he has been living these past two years – in hope of a reunion such as this.

"Guido will bring your meal and coffee, but not mine." Ruth gives Harry a quick look, and in her eyes he sees fear. "Harry, you must keep smiling ..." Harry smiles, and she continues speaking. "I will go inside in search of my risotto and tea, and I will ask for Guido. When I leave this table I will take my bag, but leave the newspaper. That is for you. Once I walk into the cafeteria, I will not come back here to this table …. to you. Guido will take me through the back way, and …... hopefully, I will be safe, and we can …... find one another. I don't know when." Ruth looks up into Harry's eyes, and they hold one another's gaze for a long moment.

"I really, really want to kiss you," he says, and again he feels a slight stirring in his abdomen, and this time it is not from jealousy, but from lust.

"There will be time for that, but we have to act quickly. It has to be today, and the sooner the better." She looks up as Guido brings with him a cup of coffee, and one risotto.

"I will bring the rest of your order in a moment," he says, looking only at Ruth, and then he steps back through the door, and into the cafeteria.

Realising they may only have a few minutes left together, Harry dips his hand into his pocket, and removes the note he had written to give to her, the one on which he had written his phone number. He palms the note, and then reaches across the table and places this hand beneath her hand, so that Ruth's hand is held between both his own. He presses the notepaper into her palm, and her fingers curl around it.

"That's for you," he says. "My phone number, in case you need to get in contact with me."

Ruth smiles, because one of the pieces of information she has hand written on several sheets of A4 paper secreted between the pages of the newspaper, is her phone number – a pay as you go phone she'd bought one day on her way home from work, and which she'd managed to hide in the lining of her bag. No-one but she, and now Harry, know that she has it. It will help her to get away from those who follow her wherever she goes.

Ruth squeezes the fingers of Harry's top hand, and he can feel the urgency she is attempting to convey to him. "You must wait here until Guido comes back. He will be gone for no more than an hour, and he will be reporting back to you. I suggest you take your time eating. Do not leave until he returns."

"What if he doesn't return?"

"He will return. He is to take me to meet his father, who is to help me get away, and then he must come back to tell you all is well. I will ring you when it is safe for you to join me. I have given you my phone number, but that is only so you recognise it when it comes up on your phone's screen. It is best for you when you leave here to go back to your hotel, and stay there. I hope I can contact you within 48 hours, but if not, don't wander too far from your hotel. You must trust me." Harry nods. He has little choice in the matter. "It is now time for me to leave."

Harry squeezes her hand between the two of his. What if something should happen to her? What if this is the last time he ever sees her?

"I have to go now." Ruth's voice is a hoarse whisper, and he is sure she is holding back tears. She leans closer to him. "I need you to know that I am doing this not only for me, but for us."

Harry is looking down at their hands, and then she quickly removes her hand, stands, takes her bag, and is gone.

He tries to appear as though his female companion has just gone inside to freshen up in the rest rooms. He tries to appear relaxed, but he is anything but relaxed. He has just been reunited with the woman he loves, and then within the space of less than twenty minutes, she has gone, and despite her warm assurances otherwise, he does not know whether he will see her again. Harry is elated, shocked, and at the same time, he is emotionally wrecked. And if that isn't enough to contend with, he'd forgotten to look at her feet. He has never seen her bare feet. He hopes there will be other opportunities …... some time soon.

As much as food is the very last thing he wants right now, Harry tucks into his risotto, pushing it around the bowl with a fork. He manages to eat half of it before he pushes it away. It is then that he sees the newspaper Ruth had left. He picks it up. He is not in the right frame of mind for reading it, but he flicks through it, and finding the A4 pages hand written by Ruth, he re-folds it, and pulls it close to him.

Forty six minutes after Ruth had left, Guido appears at his side, a little out of breath, but smiling widely. The younger man bends towards Harry, pushing a fresh cappuccino on the table in front of him.

"And?" Harry says quietly, glancing up at Guido.

"All is well," the waiter replies. "Your lady is safe, and by the time you are eating dinner, she will have left the country. She and you …... you are good together. God smiles on you both."

Harry takes a breath, and is about to thank him, when Guido quickly leaves his side.

Harry sits back in his chair. His stomach is no longer tied in knots with fear for Ruth. He may as well drink the coffee Guido brought him. Harry goes back to people watching, so he puts his sunglasses back on, and watches.

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><p>It is not until he is safely back in his hotel room that Harry pours himself a drink from the bottle of single malt he'd had sent up from the bar of the hotel. He removes the handwritten pages Ruth had slipped between the pages of the newspaper, and lays them on the bed beside him. He lays back against the pillows, whiskey glass in his hand, socked feet crossed at the ankles, and contemplates his brief meeting with Ruth. The time with her had passed so quickly that it is only now that he is free to re-live it.<p>

She had looked healthy, and despite her apparent difficult circumstances, she had appeared happy to see him. He has, perhaps unwisely, carried a torch for her all this time, hoping that one day she would be free to return to London, the Grid …... and to him. He hopes that the stirrings in his heart – and elsewhere – are not the delusions of a middle-aged man, chasing after a woman who is, and always will be, far too young for him. Will she still love him when he is old and frail? Can she? Or will she seek the company of someone younger – someone like Guido? His heart begins breaking in anticipation of what he is certain must be his future with her.

As he sips his whiskey, a kaleidoscope of images of her play across his vision. Some are real, and some are those he has conjured up over the time she has been gone from him. He is still not sure that she is his to think about in this way. She had said she is doing what she has done – taking an enormous risk – for `us'. Hopefully, when they meet again, there will still be an `us'. Harry can't bear to contemplate the possibility that Ruth may have used him.


	5. Chapter 5

Thinking about Ruth inevitably leads him to thinking dark thoughts – about her, and about his own unsuitability to being her lover. He turns to the five numbered pages Ruth had written in her own hand, and had inserted randomly between the pages of the newspaper. As he begins to read, it is very soon he sees that he is reading a private note to him – a love letter – and by the time he has read the fifth and final page, he feels tears building, and threatening to fall.

How could he have doubted her? He knows from long and ugly experience, that the person who lets him down the most is himself. Oh, he is brave in the field, and wonderful at his job – a lion, a leader of men (and women). He can match any man of his own age in courage and daring, and keeping his word, just as he can match anyone alive at deception. With the members of his team, he usually manages to hit just the right note between leadership and companionability. But with those he loves most in the world, those whom he tells himself he would gladly die for, he is forever a coward. He has fallen short with everyone of his loved ones, and he continues to do so. With Jane – when she was the woman he loved – and then with his children, and for the past three or so years with Ruth, he is anything but a man of action. He hides behind his job, burying himself in tasks which could easily be handled by others. He hesitates and says nothing when kind and loving words are needed, and he holds back when a touch or a hug would be welcome. He knows all this, and yet he still behaves cautiously, even with Ruth. Today, when she'd touched him, the warmth which had coursed through him had taken years off him, so why hadn't he simply hugged her? He'd pulled her close to him, but only so he could whisper in her ear, and ask her was she wired. _Jesus_, Harry, she's been rattling around Europe alone for almost two years, and all she wants is for him to gather her in his arms and hold her close to him. Why is that so hard? He tells himself that he's been a spy for too long, and that it has hardened him, but that's a lie. That is self-deception at its very best. His meeting with Ruth today proved that his heart is still open, and ready to love her again. She is ready, and he will have to do something about his own reluctance to be open with another. It is not Ruth whom he may not be able to trust. It is himself.

This realisation hits him like a sharp slap. He has hidden behind his job, the service, his duty to Queen and country, and all the while, people he claims to love and value have walked into his life ….. and out again. He cannot, _will not_ allow Ruth to be yet another casualty in his own internal war of attrition. He must act differently this time. He _will_ act differently. If only he could trust himself, then he'd be able to trust Ruth.

She has written very little about her first year in exile, other than to say that she moved around a lot between European countries, finding short term work wherever she went. It had been after she had been gone a year that he had received a post card from her, in which she had intimated that she loved him and missed him, but was planning to move on. He keeps the post card in his safe at home in London. It's arrival nine months earlier had given him cause for both elation and pain. He feels like he lives somewhere between the two, swinging slowly from one side to the other, a pendulum in an aging clock measuring the relentless passing of time.

Having read Ruth's letter a second time, Harry takes another swig of his drink, and lies back against his pillows. He can't believe she's had to endure so much, and while she's alone, and a long way from home. For a moment, he contemplates heading back to the cafeteria – which he knows is open until at least midnight – with the intention of hunting down the gorgeous Guido. It would be easy for him to threaten the lad, knock him around a bit, with the intention of finding Ruth, and taking charge of her escape.

But there's the problem right there. This woman chose to leave the country she loves – and her job, her friends, him – to save him and his job, and the organisation she had worked for and loved. It had been her choice to leave, and here she is, choosing to get out of Italy in this way. How like him to want to be in charge, to believe he can save her. He couldn't save her back then, so what makes him think he can do it now?

What would Ruth think of him were she to be here with him now? Chances are she'd laugh at him. Harry hopes she wouldn't scoff, or jeer. He could not bear her derision. He has always remembered Ruth as someone who had admired him, and looked up to him as someone she can respect, even love. The truth may be that all along, she has been showing him the way, and he has been too self-absorbed, too ego-driven to recognise what was really happening between them.

It is during that evening, when he lies on his back on his bed in his hotel room, that Harry decides to let go …... of all obstacles which stand in the way of his love for Ruth, and his desire to have a life with her. Any life they have together may not be normal by the standards of others, but it must be based on mutual love and trust. All the rest is just noise. All the rest – the knighthood, the kudos which accompanies his job, the need to be the man to save his country – is little more than an extension of his very wild imagination, and his desire to prove to the world that Harry Pearce is a man to be reckoned with. Even he is aware that on his deathbed, he will not be remembered by his service to his country, but if there is anyone left in his life who loves him, then he _will_ be remembered by the way in which he has loved them.

To remind himself of why it is he is rearranging his life, he picks up the final page of Ruth's letter, and reads it for the third time:

_Harry, I can say these things on paper so much more freely than I could were we sitting face to face. There was so much left unsaid, and I am saddened by that. I stopped you from speaking the words which you had wanted to say – words which I know were not easy for you to say – and I apologise for that. In my mind, I have often reviewed those last moments we shared in London, only this time I have you saying those words, and I am repeating them to you. If these last few months have taught me anything at all, it is that I should never hide the truth from those I love, and that I should never again hesitate to offer my all to a man I trust, and love with my whole being. It has been my greatest regret that, when it mattered the most, I held back my own words, and insisted you do the same._

It is when he re-reads the final paragraph of Ruth's letter to him, that he resolves to not be swayed from his newly created goals.

_I cannot promise you that we will be free to sail off into the sunset together. The success of any future relationship we have will be as dependent on your willingness to be with me, as it is on my own desire to be with you. There is one thing I do know, and that is that you and me being together will not be easy, and that there will be times when either one of us will want to call it quits. I want to say to you now that if I ever come to you, and ask you to let me go, please, please show me this letter. Insist that I read it, and then go away and think about what I am doing. Almost two years ago, I gave up a life, a career, and a man, all of whom I loved more than I can express, and I did that with my eyes open. What I am now planning is being done with the same degree of consciousness and resolve, but I do not wish to do this alone. I need you. I choose to be with you, Harry. I only hope you feel the same._

_Your Ruth_

Harry lies back against his pillow, and closes his eyes, imagining the scene as Ruth was about to leave London, and how different it would have been had they been open with one another. He then goes back to the fourth page, and re-reads it. It is the most perplexing of all the pages. There is a code there, but it is not hidden. She is telling him why she has been unable to move freely, and he is being given clues. For the past fifteen years he has had intelligence analysts to do the interpreting of data on his behalf, but now he is on his own. He hopes he is up to the task.

He takes a pencil and paper from the desk in his room, and writes down the words and phrases which do not fit the narrative, and which appear to have been thrown in with little attention to the surrounding words. He ends up with nothing of any consequence. Perhaps she had written the letter in a hurry. Perhaps she had been interrupted. Her letter had told him nothing of her time in Siena, and why she is here, and equally why she needs to get away. On his second re-read of the letter, Harry takes note of the words which genuinely stand out from the narrative. The words are _agile air, moors_ and _cathedral_. He reads the whole letter again, this time searching for anything else which does not quite fit. There is nothing.

Perhaps a starting point might be the Siena Cathedral. He knows that if Ruth were free to roam Siena, the cathedral would be one of her first ports of call.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: My thanks to readers of this fic, and especially to those of you who have taken time to leave a review.**_

* * *

><p>The next day Harry wakes with renewed enthusiasm. What he plans to do today, he is doing for Ruth. Whilst it may make little difference to the success or otherwise of her escape from the country, a knowledge of who has been controlling her life, and why, may be communicated back to London, with view to examining what appears to be a small group of people who are planning to use Ruth's skills without first asking.<p>

Harry is having to visit Siena Cathedral, but view what he sees through Ruth's eyes, using Ruth's unique brain. He is not sure he is even capable of doing that, but he needs to try. "What would Ruth do?" becomes his mantra for that day.

He arrives at the cathedral at 10:30, just as it is opening for visitors, but there is already a crowd of people around him as he wanders through the bibliotheque. He is overwhelmed by the sheer size and scale of the art within this structure. He is so in awe that he feels tears well in his eyes. He stands in the middle of the vast hall and looks up to see the intricate mosaics which decorate the ceiling. Harry has a moment when he feels he could quite happily die right at that moment. He has worked hard to keep his Queen and country safe. He has produced offspring, at least one of whom is fully functioning in the world. And he has loved, and been loved in return. It is when he is jostled by a group of American tourists, one of whom says, `Sorry, buddy, but you need to keep moving,' that he looks at the man who has spoken, and is about to thank him for reminding him why he is there. He needs to keep moving.

It is Ruth's reference to Moors – or a Moor – which has him baffled. He is almost sure that it has a connection with the obscure `agile air'. He wanders around the perimeter of the vast room until he finds himself standing in front of a mosaic of a group of men in a boat, accompanied by a shrouded woman, and they are headed towards an island in the distance. The woman's skin is pale, while the men are dark-skinned by comparison. Suddenly, the penny drops. Ruth has been in service to a group of people who are either from Sicily, southern Spain, or Northern Africa – people descended from the Moors. He immediately rules out Sicily as being improbable. Perhaps southern Spain is also, which leaves north Africa. Morocco seems unlikely, but he cannot rule it out. Algeria! Algeria is _agile air_. Harry is embarrassed by how slow he's been to solve that simple anagram.

He turns to leave, and almost runs into the same man who had suggested he keep moving.

"Sorry," he says, attempting to step around the man.

"Everyone's sorry," the man says, and then he is gone.

Harry stands stunned. It is only as he is searching for the direction the man has disappeared that he realises that his American accent was not quite `true', and that his sun-weathered Italian looks were more Siena than New York. As carefully as he is able, Harry winds his way through the crowd to the exit, and eventually steps out into the sunshine. He begins walking the way he'd come, all the time looking around him. He weaves his way through the throng on the streets, his eyes darting in all directions. He is sure he is not being followed, but the streets are so crowded that it is impossible to tell. He doesn't see the man who'd spoken to him in the cathedral, but he keeps looking around him, using shop windows as mirrors.

So when he turns into a narrow lane which never sees the sun, a short cut to his hotel, and senses movement behind him, he is immediately on red alert. He is about to turn to face whoever is behind him, when sylphlike, two men step up to stand either side of him.

"Hi," says the taller of the two, his even teeth white in the darkened space. "We've been following you. Did you see us?"

"Don't ever do that again," Harry says, his teeth and his hands still clenched, as he looks up into Guido's handsome face. "What if I'd been armed?"

"I'd have wrestled you to the ground."

"It's not a game," Harry says, clearly irritated. "Who's your friend?" This time, Harry turns to look into the eyes of the man who had spoken to him in Siena Cathedral. The man is clearly Italian, but he still sports a baseball cap, a lettered jacket and chinos, and on his feet he wears blue and grey trainers.

"This is Angelo …... my _pap__à_."

Harry rather reluctantly shakes the older man's hand. So this is the man who had rescued Ruth. He seems harmless enough, although why they thought they had to follow him from the shadows is still a mystery.

"You could have talked to me in the cathedral," he says.

"No ….." Guido says, shaking his head, "too public. This is business. Follow me."

The word `business' has Harry intrigued, and since the only connection he has with these men is Ruth, he must go with them. He has sensed for a few hours now that something is not quite right with Ruth. He knows that he and Ruth are connected. They have a bond which has no boundaries of geography or time, and goes beyond love and their attraction for one another. Perhaps this bond is what attracted them to one another in the first place. Maybe this bond has always been there, even before they met.

"This way, please," Angelo says, and he leads them further down the lane, to another lane which runs off at right angles. From there, Angelo turns into yet another lane which opens into a small courtyard, onto which several buildings face. He and Guido head straight to one of the doors, which Angelo opens. Angelo has been panting with the effort of walking so fast. He is a few years younger than Harry, but heavier, and in even worse shape.

Inside the building, they climb two flights of stairs, and then Angelo produces a key which opens the door to apartment 2D. Inside the apartment it is dark and cool, and it takes a few moments for Harry's eyes to adjust. Harry is led into a room which appears to be a sitting room which was no doubt once elegant and welcoming, but had been neglected, and needs cleaning. A window high on one wall gives a view of more rooftops, interrupted by small patches of blue sky. A worn Turkish rug graces the middle of the floor, and the sofa and armchairs look comfortable, but have seen better days.

"Take a seat, Harry," he says, his arm indicating the armchairs each side of an empty fireplace. "Guido and me, we'll get some refreshments. We have something to tell you."

Despite his irritation with how he was approached by these two men, Harry is prepared to go through almost anything for Ruth. He needs to know what has happened to her, and it seems that Guido and his father know something.

Harry hears a toilet flush somewhere in the apartment, and then a few minutes later, Guido enters the room, and he is smiling. Harry would like to tears strips off him for he and his father having followed him, but before he can speak, Angelo enters the room carrying a tray of drinks – three glasses, with a bottle each of red wine, water and Peroni beer.

"Beer, water or wine?" Angelo asks, putting the tray on a table under the window. "You like my disguise? My American accent? I once lived for a year in New York. Long story. There was a girl I was chasing. I was young. She was younger."

"Beer, thank you," Harry says, choosing to ignore the rest of his questions.

Angelo hands Harry the Peroni, and a glass. "I am sorry for this …. for the way we approached you, but we had to get your attention."

"You have my attention," Harry says, pouring the beer until the glass is full. He looks across at Guido. "Why didn't you just call ….. or visit?"

Guido lifts his shoulders and both his hands in a continental shrug. "We had not your hotel, or your phone number, or your last name. All we have is that you are Harry, and your lady wants to tell you where she is. All I can remember her saying to me was that she hoped you would go to the cathedral, so …... _Papà_, he waited there for you, and I hid, and pointed you out to him."

"Guido," Harry says, clearly irritated, "why didn't you just come up to me, and invite me for a drink …... like any normal person? I thought I was being mugged."

"Mugged? This isn't Rome. In Siena is civilised people. Mugging …... _phht_." Guido waves one hand in the air in a gesture of dismissal.

Angelo has been pouring wine for himself, and water for Guido. "I am afraid this was my idea …... my fault, if you like. I thought it might make you listen to us."

"Yes, thank you for that," Harry says, suddenly seeing the funny side.

"My _papà_, you must forgive," Guido interjects. "He was in Operation Gladio in the 1970's -"

"No, Guido, I am always telling you …... I just trained for them, then it was all over once I met your mother. She made me give it up. I always wanted to be a spy."

Angelo and Guido then begin arguing in Italian about whether Angelo saw any action or not, and then they move on to Angelo's father, Roberto, and whether he had actually met Mussolini. Guido thinks not. They speak so quickly that Harry only grabs a few words in each sentence spoken. He should be relieved, and he is. He should be thankful that this father and son care enough to drag him off the streets in order to talk to him. Clearly, this encounter is about Ruth, and for that reason, Harry is prepared to let go of any irritation he feels. Had they approached him directly, in the street or the cathedral, he may not have been so ready to listen.

"So, why have you brought me here?" Harry asks, having polished off his glass of beer while father and son have discussed the clandestine activities of the men in their family line, dating back to the first world war, if Harry's Italian serves him correctly.

Both men stop in mid-discussion and look towards Harry, having forgotten he is in the room.

"To tell you what happened to Emma," Guido says, lifting his shoulders in a half shrug.

"So …... where is she? I haven't heard from her."

"Ah," Angelo says, his blue eyes twinkling in a smile, "that's because I stole her from them."

"Stole her? What do you mean?" Harry feels a crawling sensation under his skin, part joy and part panic. The next few minutes will determine which way his responses fall.

"I ….. I stole her from under their noses, and took her north to my family."

"Stole? How could you steal her? I thought she was in good hands when she left Siena?"

"She was. When we reached Follonica, I'd planned to put her in my own boat, and take her to Corsica. I have a cousin there, and he would look after her until he was sure we were not followed. Guido and she were followed from the outskirts of Siena, and then when I took over, we thought …... everything was fine."

"_Papà_ saw two of the men who had been tailing her – but had lost her – they were at the marina at Follonica. They were waiting for she and _Papà, _so he turned, and got back in the car."

Harry is lost. The story makes no sense to him, but he has to ask.

"What men are we talking about?" He looks from one man to the other.

"They work for the Algerian secret service. They work for Mediene. He is a bad man."

_No shit_.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: To those of you who are getting antsy about it, Ruth and Harry will be reunited ... just not quite yet.**_

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><p>By the time Harry is back inside his hotel room, it is almost dinner time. He had spent the previous five and a half hours with Angelo and Guido, and what they had told him had him fearing for Ruth …... not now, hopefully, but for the past few months while she'd been in Siena. She'd known who these men were, and because of that, she'd done their bidding, doing the occasional bit of analysis for them, restraining her life, and making only predictable moves. It had only been when she'd confided in Guido one late afternoon at the café over a carafe of red wine, that he had suggested it might be in her best interests to silently and stealthily get out of Italy. She'd liked that idea, but needed help. That had been three weeks ago, and it had taken Guido and his father, and his father's brother-in-law at least two of those weeks to formulate a plan. Her meeting Harry at the café had provided them with the avenue for her escape.<p>

"How did they know who she was?" Harry had asked.

"One of the Algerians – Farouk Hannachi – has spent the last few years in the UK. He has been undercover for some time, in the US, and then in the UK. He saw in her an …... opportunity to boost the skills of the Algerian secret service." Angelo clearly knew more than he had told Harry, and he was far more astute than the sweet, bumbling, middle-aged man he had pretended to be.

"Why couldn't she just leave of her own accord? Surely she could have evaded them."

"She told me that there was someone following her everywhere she went," Guido had replied. "They'd be outside her flat, outside her work. There were only four of them, but whenever she was on the streets, someone followed her. When she was to meet you the first time, she wandered the streets until mid afternoon, but still they were there."

"Emma told me …... when I met her yesterday ….. that she was not being followed to the café."

"That day she managed to …... shake them off when she visited a public toilet which led into a cinema," Guido had added, but had not seen the need to expand upon.

"Why did they not simply ... kidnap her?"

Harry had suppressed the thought, but he still needed to know. Guido's reply was a lift of his shoulders, and a twist of his lips. `Who knows?' was implied.

So now Ruth is in Livorno with Guido's aunt – Angelo's late wife's sister and her husband, the husband being the one who had helped to rescue Ruth. They assure him she is safe, and when the time is right, Harry can join her. _Then what?_ he thinks, as he swirls his whiskey around and around, moodily watching the viscous fluid slide up and down the sides of the glass. He is in Siena while Ruth is under watchful eyes – caring eyes, this time - in Livorno. As he sees it, very little has changed. She is still some distance from him, and were he to visit her, even for a day, his presence may put her in danger.

Harry eats a lone dinner in the hotel's dining room, all the time trying to block from his mind persistent thoughts of Ruth being stalked by swarthy men. It is when he is back in his room and he is emptying his jacket pockets that he finds a slip of paper. On it is simply written _Emma_, and a phone number with a 586 area code. Somehow he knows that this is the area code for Livorno, and he holds the small scrap of paper to his lips and kisses it. Were Guido and his _p__apà_ in the room with him, he may even have kissed them – on the cheeks, of course.

It is within the quiet joy of finding this phone number that Harry remembers that not only does he have a safe phone, but Ruth does also. He searches inside the lining of his bag, and finds the pages Ruth had written to him. Using his own safe phone, he dials the number of Ruth's new phone. She answers after two rings.

"Ruth," he breathes into the phone, "why haven't you rung me? I needed to know you were safe."

The silence at the other end of the phone tells him that he has spoken out of turn.

"I was planning to ring you later tonight," she says, her voice soft …... calming …... settling his anxiety in just those few words spoken. "You've beaten me to it, but it's good to hear your voice …... Harry."

"You too. It's …... I'm happy to hear your voice." And he is. More overjoyed than happy.

Harry then begins to tell Ruth the tale of his day in Siena, from his visit to the cathedral, to the encounter with Guido and Angelo. Ruth giggles into the phone, and Harry can't help but smile. As annoyed as he was at the time, in hindsight the very idea that two civilian Italian men had even thought to approach a member of the British secret service in a darkened lane is preposterous.

"When first I met Guido's father," Ruth says quietly, and Harry is sure he can feel her breath down the phone. "I think he fancied I might take to his son."

"And you didn't?"

"Harry! How could I? For a start, he has at least four girlfriends, none of whom know about the others, and secondly, I only have eyes for one man."

"And who might that be?"

"Oh …... some grumpy, middle-aged man to whom I lost my heart years ago."

Harry feels a thrill run through his body. He loves it when Ruth plays along with his gentle flirting. He has missed that. He has missed her, and he misses her still.

"I'd really like to visit you." he says carefully. "I can be there by lunchtime tomorrow."

This time, the silence between them sends his heart plummeting. He can hear Ruth breathing, her mouth close to the phone, and he is sure he can hear her thinking.

"As difficult as it is to say this," she says, "I'm leaving first thing in the morning. I have to leave Italy …. for my own safety. Were I to stay here for even one more day …... that may be just enough time for my shadows to be able to trace me. And what's more, there is no reason – so far – for them to connect you to me. When I met you in the square, I needed to have lost them. I didn't wish to endanger you, Harry, and I don't want them following you hoping you will lead them to me. Were that to happen …..."

They both wait while Harry absorbs the meaning of her words. Of course, he knows she is right. This is not some holiday in the sun …... not any more. He has no right to be putting either of them in danger.

"I'm sorry, Harry. If you want to see me even half as much as I long to see you, then …... I'm thinking in the long term. We can't be taking risks. Not until my name is cleared, and I can return home."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not yet sure myself. I'm in touch with Malcolm by phone, and he's keeping traces on Hannachi and his little crew of thugs, and he'll direct me to where I am to go once I reach Florence. I'd love to spend more time there, but I may only be able to stay overnight tomorrow, and then I'll have to fly out to …... I don't know where."

Harry wants to object. He also wants to tell her how desperately he'll miss her. He wants to tell her he loves her. He wants to drive to Livorno, and turn up at her doorstep at midnight. He wants to wrap his arms around her and never let her go. He wants to take her to bed and make love to her until they are both exhausted. He'll do none of these. Ruth's safety is as important to him as it is to her. At least he has seen her. At least he has touched her, and felt her lips on his. Had he not travelled to Italy when he had received her message, then he would not have his tiny box of memories to take home to London, memories which must satisfy him for weeks, and perhaps even months. He mentally shakes himself, and reminds himself that he is a lucky man. His love for Ruth is returned, and that is all that matters.

"Harry? Are you still there?"

"Yes. I'm here. You're telling me to go back to London, aren't you?"

"Yes," she breathes, as though she has struggled to allow the word to leave her mouth. "You have to go back, but it might be best if you spend a few more days just sight-seeing …... just so that you appear to be here on holiday."

Harry sighs, his disappointment still heavy in his chest. He recognises this moment as yet another bittersweet parting – like that day by the Thames, and then when Ruth had left the café to go with Guido. Is their relationship always to be like this? Snatched moments of joy sandwiched between months, and even years of longing for her and fearing for her safety. Harry wants to say the words to her. Now is his chance to say them. They must be spoken aloud. He must …...

"Harry? Harry, are you alright?"

"Not really. I'm …..."

"I know."

"Ruth ….. I love you."

"I know, Harry. I know you love me. We will get through this, but there are sacrifices we must make in order to see one another again. I need my name cleared, and I need to be somewhere ….. safe."

* * *

><p>Ruth is near tears. She'd ended the call to Harry abruptly, and she hopes he understands how difficult she finds it to talk to him, when all she wants to do is say yes to each one of his quite clear desires.<p>

_Can I visit you?_ Yes.

_Can I kiss you?_ Yes.

_Can I stay with you?_ Always.

She pockets her phone, and heads downstairs, where Gian and Dino are setting up dinner on their patio under the grape vines. Over the past 24 hours she has enjoyed their company, and will be sad to leave them. She will be sad to leave Italy, as it is one of her favourite European countries. Most of all, it will hurt her deeply to again be walking away from Harry, having little idea of when they will see one another again.


	8. Chapter 8

Ten days later, Harry is back on the Grid, and it is as though he had never left.

"Did you enjoy your holiday?" Connie had asked, her expression coy, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Yes, thank you. It was very relaxing."

"Well, I have to tell you that it's not relaxing here. Al-Qaeda, Al-Qaeda, and just for laughs, the CIA. I imagine you're glad to be home."

"Not especially."

Harry sees Malcolm hovering at his office door, and dismisses Connie by looking past her to the doorway. "Can I help you, Malcolm?"

"I just thought we might …..."

"After the meeting, I think."

By the time the meeting is wrapped up, Harry has a thumping headache, and he rubs his forehead with is fingers, his eyes closed. Everyone has a task, and he has so much paper work to catch up on that there will not be enough hours in the day.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

Since the last person to have asked him was he alright was Ruth, Harry keeps his eyes closed, the memory of her voice soothing him from the other end of the phone, even after ten days.

"I know why you came home early," Malcolm continues quietly. "I'm in regular contact with Ruth."

Harry opens his eyes, and puts both hands back on the table. Malcolm's eyes are soft and kind, and understanding. Whilst that should calm him, it doesn't. He just feels sad.

"I know," he says at last. "Ruth told me. I only saw her the once."

"At least you got to see her. Was she well?"

"She looked …... rather lovely, but she was frightened. What saddens me is that she seemed accustomed to fear. I've not wanted that for her."

Malcolm takes a deep breath before he speaks. "I would have thought that once she took off – alone - down the Thames two years ago, fear would become part of her daily life."

Harry nods, but he can't help feeling that he'd been chastised. "I'm after an update, Malcolm. Ruth asked me to not contact her again …... until her name is cleared, and she is free to come home."

"Yes, she told me. It was …... difficult for her to do that."

Harry nods, understanding the awkward situation Malcolm is in …... as the go-between. "You mustn't neglect your work here, Malcolm."

"I have it quite well organised. I have traces on the four Algerians, and I have the safe email contact as well as safe phone contact with Ruth. She contacts me every few days, usually by email, which leaves my days free for keeping tabs on the members of the Al-Qaeda cell during the day."

Harry waits, but Malcolm says no more. He sits and waits for Harry to direct him further, his stillness being one of his attributes, but in this instance it puts Harry on edge.

"Can I ask where she is?" Harry asks at last.

"Yes, you may ask, but Ruth has instructed me to not tell you until you have her documents ready. Then she would rather like it were you to fly to get her. I ask no questions. I am merely delivering a message."

"Thank you, Malcolm. Is that all?"

Malcolm nods, gets up, and leaves. When he reaches the door, he turns towards Harry. "She'll be alright, Harry. She's safe where she is. The Algerians are still in Italy. I suspect they have given up, and are looking for a new target. It's likely they'll be looking for someone more …... cooperative. The best thing you can do now is to …... make sure she's free to come home. We all …... miss her."

"I'm not sure Connie will appreciate Ruth's return."

"Connie is past retirement age, Harry. She knows her tenure is not open-ended."

Harry nods again. "How do you see the two of them getting on?"

This time Malcolm smiles his lop-sided smile, and his eyes twinkle with mischief. "Like two cats in a bag. For mine, I'll enjoy seeing Ruth out-shining Connie on a daily basis. Everyone needs a dose of humility every now and again."

* * *

><p>It is not until two days later that Harry is free to visit the Home Secretary. He gives Blake a vague outline of where he'd spent his three weeks of leave, and the reason he had chosen Siena, Italy.<p>

"She needs to come home, Home Secretary. She did nothing wrong. She was framed."

"I know, Harry."

"So why is she still having to hide?" He then tells Blake about Ruth having to evade the Algerian secret service.

"That's unacceptable, I agree. Leave it with me. I have some leverage, and you have a job to do."

"She'll need a pardon, an apology, and her identity back. I can't go to get her until she is free to come home and get on with her life."

Nicholas Blake sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. Harry can almost read his mind. Here it comes, he thinks. He's about to ask me _the_ question. "Tell me, Harry …... are you and Ruth more than Section head and senior analyst? It's just that you seem rather over-invested in her welfare."

"I would do this for any one of my team. I have lost some very valuable officers over the past few years, Ruth being one of them. I need her back on the Grid. Her insight into …... obscure data is unique." Harry gives himself a moment to calm. "During the time she worked for MI-5 Ruth and I became trusted friends. She is missed by everyone who ever worked with her."

Blake again sits forward, and rests his hands on his desk. There is still a slight smile on his face. "Nice glance down leg side, Harry. You still haven't answered my question."

"We are close, yes, and I feel responsible for her exile. After all, she sacrificed herself to save me …... and Section D."

Nicholas Blake's expression doesn't change, which is why Harry is so thrown by his next words.

"There's nothing like a grand gesture to get the juices flowing, is there? I'm surprised you haven't smuggled her back here, and have her living in secret inside your house."

Harry stands, and takes one step towards the door. "I trust you'll let me know when the documentation is ready."

"I'll get on to it right away, Harry. It should only take two or three weeks."

* * *

><p>In the end, it is almost eight weeks before Ruth's passport, bank account details, drivers license, and a written apology - written in the Prime Minister's own hand - find their way to Harry's desk, having been couriered over first thing from the office of the Home Secretary.<p>

There have been many nights when Harry has been tempted to ring Ruth, but he'd controlled the impulse to make that connection. One night, when he was still at his desk in Thames House after an especially stressful day, he took his safe phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, and composed a text to Ruth. _I love you and miss you. I don't have to know where you are, but I need to know you are well and safe. xx _

He'd tucked his phone back in his pocket without having sent the text. An hour later, by which time he was home, and had had a hot shower to wash away the grime of the day, and ease his tired muscles, he took the phone from his jacket, opened to the message he'd composed, and deleted it. Suddenly, he understood why Ruth had requested there be no contact with him. She would have enough to deal with in adjusting to yet another new environment, without having to contend with his missing her. Had he sent that text, it would have been an act of selfishness.

When he opens the manila envelope and sees what is inside, Harry lets out a deep sigh of relief. The Grid is almost empty, with most of the team in the field, either undercover or providing surveillance. Connie is the only other member of the senior team still at Thames House, and Harry feels the need to be straight with her. He locks the manila envelope and its contents in a desk drawer, and leaves his office to speak with Connie. She is sitting at her desk wearing comms equipment, her eyes on her monitor.

"Ben's shaping up well," she says, once he enters her field of vision. "He's unremarkable in most ways, and that makes him a natural for undercover work. He doesn't stand out, and so he's easy to ignore."

"I need to speak with you," Harry says, grabbing a chair from a nearby desk, and sitting down across from her.

Connie removes her head gear, and looks at Harry, her face already a mask of disapproval. "I know what this is about," she says.

"Oh?"

"This is about Ruth Evershed, isn't it?"

Harry should have known that very little gets past Connie James. She is astute and sharp and highly intelligent. She is also someone who is best kept as an ally, since she makes a devastating foe.

"Yes," he says. "It is."

Connie sits back in her chair, and places her hands in her lap, as though she is posing for an artist. The fight appears to have left her.

"I've been waiting for you to say something, Harry. You really are sometimes the most cowardly of men, especially when it comes to dealing with the women in your life."

Harry is shocked into silence.

"Oh, come on, Harry. Everyone knows you went on leave to see her. It's an open secret on the Grid."

"Did Malcolm say anything?"

"God ….. no. Secrets are always safe with Malcolm. He'd rather die than share what he knows. Ros can read you like a book, you know. She knew what was going on, and I suspected there was more between you and Ruth than a professional relationship."

"So you know what I'm about to say."

"You're giving me my notice."

"I am, but I'd like you to stay for the first two weeks of Ruth's return to the Grid …... just to ease her back in."

"I'm sure Ruth doesn't need me or anyone else to show her how things work here. Her work on Section D has become the stuff of legend. I'm just a hack by comparison."

"You underestimate your skills, Connie."

"No, Harry, I don't. It's just that Ruth is so much more brilliant than any other analysts …... anywhere at all. I'll clear out my desk before she starts. She won't want me breathing down her neck." Connie watches Harry, her clear blue eyes not leaving his. "How long before you go to get her? You are going to get her, aren't you? If you don't she'll never forgive you. I'm assuming you'll be taking your remaining week of leave while you're about it."

Harry can only grin. "Once Ben is back on the Grid I'll leave. I want to see that he gets out of there unscathed."

"Go, Harry. Go as soon as you can. Love is something you can wait too long for. It won't always be there, you know."

Harry nods, and leaves. Trust Connie to put her finger right on the most pertinent point of all. Love won't wait forever, and neither will Ruth.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: I guess I should have added a warning earlier that Ruth and Harry spend a large part of this story apart, but in this chapter they manage to find one another again. Thanks for the reviews everyone.**_

_**A number of reviewers mentioned that I have written Connie James as being `nicer' than she was. Perhaps all is not as it seems.**_

* * *

><p>He gazes out the window at the bright blue of the Mediterranean Sea below. He sees the coast of Cyprus come into view, and he knows he is about to become whole again. He is close to her, can almost feel her, even though his plane will land in Paphos, leaving him with a forty-five minute drive to the north-west coast of the island. Harry knows he is smiling, but he doesn't care. For the first time in over eight weeks, he is happy.<p>

As the aircraft banks, and turns ready to approach the Paphos airport, he remembers the phone call he made to Ruth once he had her identity papers in his possession.

"I hope this is good news," she'd said, as she answered his call.

"It is."

They had both paused, enjoying the connection between them, their unspoken thoughts filling the silence.

"You have everything?"

"I do, and there's even a written apology from the PM."

"I didn't ask for that, Harry."

"I know, but I did."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Harry had waited a few moments, but she hadn't answered. "I need to know where you are, Ruth, so that I can book my ticket."

"You really are coming to get me, aren't you?"

"I said I would. I'm taking a week off work, too."

Her silence had worried him, until he heard her quiet sobs. He listened for almost a full minute, giving her time to calm.

"I hope those tears are of joy and relief. If not, I may have to do some rescheduling."

"They are. Of course they are." Ruth had laughed, her words tumbling out between. "You'll need to book a ticket for yourself, Harry."

"I will when I know where I'm going."

And so she had told him, and he'd been relieved. "There is no Algerian presence in Cyprus, Ruth."

"I think that was the idea."

* * *

><p>He reaches the outskirts of Polis just before 5 o'clock. It is a small town which nestles around Chrysochous Bay. Harry follows Ruth's clear directions, and heads west out of the town, and past Latchi Beach, which is already heavily populated by tourists. He turns right down the second lane, and this leads him to a beach road. He cruises slowly along the unsealed road, looking for number 12. It is a small, neat white bungalow nestled back against sand hills, and he sees Ruth at the front gate, but she is not alone. There is also a man with her – a tall, dark-haired man – and he is smiling down at Ruth, and she is smiling into his eyes as she speaks to him.<p>

Harry parks the car behind the silver BMW, and gets out. His eyes meets Ruth's, and immediately he knows he should not be worried about this man. He approaches them slowly, his eyes never leaving her. She is dressed casually in blue jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, and sandals.

"Harry," she calls to him, her voice like velvet, "meet George. My landlord."

Harry shakes the man's hand. He has a firm grasp, which Harry likes, and his eye contact is direct. Harry looks back into George's brown eyes, so that George is the first to look away.

"I'd best go, then" George says in accented English. "I have early evening clinic."

Harry and Ruth stand next to one another, and watch George drive away. They each wave, like he is an old friend. Harry is only waving because he hopes never to see the man again.

"Your landlord visits you?" he says.

Ruth turns and looks into his eyes. "He's not your competition, Harry."

"I know," he says, smiling down at her, "but I believe that he wishes he was."

It is only then that he leans closer, cups her chin with one hand, and kisses her gently on the lips. "Hello," he says, "I've come to take you home."

* * *

><p>They eat dinner on the patio – little more than a verandah – which overlooks the sea. Harry squints as he catches a glimpse of the setting sun over the narrow view of Chrysochous Bay between the grass-covered sandhills which obscure the best of the ocean view. Most of all, he notices the silence. Ruth has chosen a quiet place in which to gather herself together before she returns to the cacophony of London.<p>

"There's something I've been wondering about," he says after a long silence, and when Ruth says nothing in reply, he continues. "Why didn't the Algerians just take you? If they wanted your skills as an analyst, why didn't they kidnap you? They're hardly known for their good manners."

Ruth takes so long to answer that Harry wonders had she heard him.

"I'd asked myself the same thing," she says at last, "and I discussed this with Malcolm …. in our emails. He said …. that they were just trying to scare me, to keep me on my toes …. just in case they needed me."

"That's strange."

"I thought so."

"Do you think ... that perhaps they were waiting for me - or someone else from the British Secret Service - to fly out to get you? Do you think they were keeping an eye on you ... as bait?"

Ruth nods. "The thought had crossed my mind, which was why I couldn't have them following me when I met you."

Harry waits a while before he again speaks. "You _were _scared, weren't you?"

"Petrified."

Harry reaches out to take her hand, but she has already grasped the bottle of retsina, and is pouring the last of it into his glass.

"I've probably had enough," he says. "I'm about to pass out."

And pass out he does. They have little alternative than to share a bed. There are only two bedrooms. There is a queen size bed in the front bedroom, and the second bedroom is being renovated, thus George's visit. They climb into bed together, each dressed in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. Harry is unsure about what Ruth expects from him.

They share a few light kisses, and then she shuffles closer to him, and he winds his arms around her.

"I'm not expecting anything tonight, Harry. I know you've had a hellish couple of weeks."

"How …...?" he begins, and then he remembers. "Malcolm told you?"

"Yes. No details, just that he and you and Connie had spent long hours on the Grid without a decent break, and without sleep."

Before Ruth finishes speaking, Harry's eyes are closed. Within another minute, he is breathing deeply, and Ruth hears his light snore. She snuggles closer to him, feeling safe and protected within his embrace.

Harry wakes to an empty bed, but he can smell eggs and bacon cooking, so he gets out of bed, puts on his bathrobe, and heads to the bathroom for a shower and shave. While he stands under the stream of water, he closes his eyes and imagines that he and Ruth have retired from the service, and that they are living on some island paradise much like Cyprus, free to come and go, and safe from the dangers and darker forces which threaten the stability of countries the world over. He lifts his face to the water, and allows it to wash away the past few weeks. He wants to feel free to begin anew …... with Ruth.

They eat a lazy breakfast, speaking little, and about nothing of consequence. He feels deep joy at being able to share his first meal of the day with her. He can sense in her an unease, but she doesn't share it with him until after lunch, when they wander through the main shopping strip in Polis, picking up wine, whiskey and food for the remainder of their week together.

Work is only mentioned once, and Harry considers that he handled it well. They had been strolling through the stalls at the market – not touching – when Ruth had stopped, turned towards him, and asked him about Connie.

"How will she manage working with me?" Ruth had asked. "I won't compromise my methods, Harry."

"She's planning to retire before you begin," he replies. His words are not altogether true, but nor are they false.

"Oh. I hope she's not retiring because of me," Ruth says carefully.

"I only brought Connie in for a short time. She never expected to stay for long."

He watches her closely for the remainder of the afternoon. He is sure her spark has gone, and that there are lines between her eyebrows which were not there at breakfast time.

He knows he could watch her all day, and he often has …... from his office on the Grid. While he is deliberate in his movements, only moving quickly when there is a crisis which requires his attention, Ruth reminds him of a bird as she flits from one thing to another, her level of fascination and involvement rising with each moment. He is also aware that he is watching her with a mixture of fascination, awe and love. He has not entertained an impure thought about her since he'd arrived the afternoon before. For Harry this is a first. He has always lusted after a woman before he's loved her. It has always been his order of approach …... desire ….. lust ….. fascination …... addiction …... disinterest …. or on very rare occasions, love. He has loved very few women, but lusted after many.

Again, they sit on the patio to eat, and sip white wine to accompany their meal of white bream and salad.

"I need you to be honest with me, Harry. We won't work if you play with the truth."

"You're talking about Connie, aren't you?"

Ruth nods.

"I told her that with you returning to the Grid, her contract would end. She was only ever going to be with us for a short time. She's in her sixties, Ruth, and she'll be taken care of."

Ruth is quiet for the rest of the meal, and he knows her well enough to detect that she is harbouring some guilt. It is dark, and they have eaten by the light of the moon, and the kitchen light which shines through the window.

"I have an idea," he says. "Let's go for a swim."

Ruth immediately brightens. "Did you even bring a swimming costume?"

"I brought two," he replies. "One is maroon and the other blue."

"Wear the blue one," she says, her eyes shining. "Blue suits you."

They splash around in the shallows, each very aware of the other. Harry can't take his eyes off her. Her swimsuit is a very deep and dark blue, and once it becomes wet, it clings to her body. He enjoys her shape – the curves of her hips, waist and breasts, as well as the hollow at her throat, which he is sure is calling to him. He notices Ruth's eyes glancing at him, taking in his bare chest and shoulders, and once he becomes wet all over, the front of his swim shorts, which cling to his body. His male ego enjoys her interest in his body, while there is another part of him is worried he may disappoint her

To distract her, he flicks a handful of water up towards her, and manages to drench her face. She gasps, and wipes her face with both hands, while Harry wades quickly towards her, apologising all the way. When he reaches her, she leans against his shoulder, and he slides both arms around her. He is not sure whether she is laughing or crying, but he holds her, hoping that the movement of his hands over her bare back will have a calming effect on her. He pulls her close to him, knowing that her proximity, the water, the few layers of fabric which separate them, and yes, the moon glinting on the surface of the water will result in his body giving him away.

And it does.

He slowly pulls away from her, and grasping her hand, draws her further into the water.

"Let's swim," he says, and he dives under the water, coming up a few yards away, where he turns to look back at Ruth, who is still standing in the shallows. "I'll race you to the horizon."

"You go," she says, "I'll watch."


	10. Chapter 10

The moon is bright enough to provide ample light, and had it not, the lights from the marina a half mile further along the beach cast a glow in every direction. Harry slows, and then turns to see how far he has swum. Not that far. He's not quite the athlete he'd been in his youth. He can still see Ruth's head bobbing just above the surface of the water. She has remained where her feet can touch solid ground.

For the first time in weeks, Harry contemplates what he is doing here, when the siren song of his job in London still calls him, attempting to guilt trip him into returning. He knows he has become addicted to the rush, the adrenalin, the constant struggle to overcome that which can never be overcome, no matter how many years of his life he gives to the cause. The so-called war on terror can never be won. It is a game which will still be in progress long after he has gone, and perhaps long after his children have gone. Not so long ago, he believed in his decision to have dedicated his life to this cause. Now, he is wanting the very thing which Ruth seems to be offering him. Why shouldn't he want something for himself, something sweet and personal which he and Ruth can share? He has never loved another woman with the steadiness and endurance with which he loves Ruth, and he has never before wanted a woman in the same way he wants her. The sweetness and gentleness she is offering is what has been missing from his life, and he can no longer turn his back on it.

Before he can talk himself out of what he has decided is the right thing to be doing, he pushes his arms ahead of him through the water, and swims back to her. By the time he reaches the shore, Ruth has left the water, and is lying on her towel, under the overhang of a rockface. Harry strides across the sand towards her, aware that his swim shorts cling to him, and that Ruth is propped on her elbow, watching his progress up the beach. When he reaches her, she hands him his towel, and he dries off, and then spreads it beside her, and lies on his side, watching her.

His eyes glance over her skin, and he knows she is doing the same with him. Were it fifteen years ago, he would have had her swimsuit off her by now, and they'd already be coupling on her towel. He is fifteen years older – and wiser – and Ruth is not something to be conquered, like a rebel nation. He really wants to touch her skin. He must touch her. He has no sooner had that thought than Ruth reaches out with her hand and cups his jaw, drawing him close to her.

The kiss is careful, restrained, but they are both aware of the passion hovering just beneath the surface. Harry rolls towards Ruth, and finds himself lying half on top of her, kissing her deeply, while one hand has lifted the strap of her swimsuit off her shoulder, pushing it down her arm, giving his fingers a wider expanse of skin to explore. He finds his mouth on the hollow at her throat, and he drinks her in, tasting the salt on her skin. By the time Ruth's fingers have grazed over his shoulders and down his sides to the waistband of his swim shorts, he is fully aroused. She says something, but he's not listening. He's tasting her, over and over and over. Her skin is soft and smooth, as he knew it would be, and sweet, as he suspected, as well as salty, and he wants to taste every inch of her. She speaks again, but he still can't put the sounds together to form words. It's just her voice, and her voice is a thing of sheer beauty. His mouth finds her breast, exposed by his lowering the strap, and he sucks and licks and devours her skin, bringing her nipple to attention.

"_Harry_."

This time he hears her. He lifts his head to look into her eyes, taking a moment to focus.

"Harry …... not here."

"Why not?"

"Sand …... in …... sensitive body cavities."

"Right," and he very reluctantly rolls away from her.

Once they reach the verandah, they kiss again, but again Ruth pulls away.

"We have to remove our swimsuits," she says, "and leave them on the wall to dry."

They peel off their swimsuits, hold them under the running tap at the edge of the verandah, and then lay them and their towels over the low wall which defines the end of the patio. For the first time, they stand naked before one another. The moon provides just enough light for Harry to be able to drink her in with his eyes, while he notices her eyes skim from his neck down his body to his thighs, and then back again. Strangely, he does not feel embarrassed. Ruth's eyes seem to appreciate what she sees. She takes his hand, and pulls him towards the door to the cottage.

"The neighbours," she says, "they might see us."

"Only if they're equipped with high-powered night-vision binoculars."

Ruth giggles, and stands aside so that he enters the cottage ahead of her …... chiefly so that she can graze her fingers across his bare bum as he walks past her. His fingers linger on her waist, but she points him in the direction of the bathroom. "We have to wash off the salt and sand," she says.

Harry is not sure if this is to be a shared shower. They have not talked about it, and he is not quite brave enough to ask, but as he adjusts the cold tap, he feels her warm presence at his back, and then she presses her front against his back. He could happily leave this life, having felt Ruth's naked body against his. Another milestone – their first shared shower. May there be many more.

Harry soaps his hands, then turns and begins to massage Ruth's skin – neck, shoulders, arms, hands, then feet, ankles, calves, thighs – everywhere but her most intimate area. She moans with want, and he's sure the word which slides from her lips is `bastard'. He pulls her against him so that she can feel how much he wants her, while his hands grasp her buttocks, lifting her to him so that his arousal slides between her legs. Ruth's next utterance – _Christ _– he hears loud and clear.

Harry is the one to pull away, since they still need to dry themselves before they can get into bed. They watch each other warily, as for the second time in twenty minutes, they towel their skin dry. Harry can't help himself; he leans down to kiss her, searching for her tongue, pressing himself against her.

"The bedroom," is all she manages to say between kisses.

In bed, they each lie on their sides, watching the other. Under the cover of the duvet, hands reach for skin, and above the duvet, Ruth is the one to lean into him for a kiss.

"I can't wait much longer," she says after a particularly long and amorous kiss, so Harry pulls her leg across his body to rest on his hip, as he slides closer. Their coupling is at once both exciting and a relief. As he is moves inside her, Harry opens his eyes to see tears in Ruth's own eyes. He reaches down to kiss her, and feels her fingers grip his shoulders.

"I'm never allowing you to leave me again," he says, before he realises his words may sound possessive and arrogant. "Not unless you have a very good reason," he adds.

Ruth nods, and closes her eyes, and he can feel her climax building, so he leans down to place his cheek next to hers.

Afterwards, they hold one another until they fall asleep. It has been a deeply satisfying day.

* * *

><p>Next morning Harry is the first to wake, and so he quietly dresses, and heads down the hallway to the kitchen. The kettle has just boiled when he hears a knock on the front door. He opens the door to the Greek Cypriot doctor, George.<p>

"I have today off," George says without preamble. "Would you and Emma like to come out on my boat? One of my patients told me about a fishing spot along the coast."

Ninety minutes later, Ruth and Harry are in George's motor launch with George and his nine-year-old son, Nico. The boy seems pleasant enough, but Harry is still not convinced that George's intentions towards Ruth are without an ulterior motive. Through the dark glasses he wears, Harry keeps a close eye on George. The man is a smooth operator, but he is relieved to notice that Ruth refuses to be drawn in by him. She regularly moves to Harry's side, and touches him – on the arm, on his face, or grasps his hand – clearly to give George the message that she is off limits.

Harry enjoys the sun, something he sees little of unless he is spending time away from the Grid, and out of England. On the way to the fishing spot, he sits on the deck and soaks up the sun. He knows that his skin will burn, but in a few days any reddened skin will tan. Ruth's skin is already honeyed by the sun, and he smiles to himself when he remembers that he has seen pretty much all of Ruth's skin, and not all of it is tanned. Behind his sunglasses, he also watches Ruth, as she exchanges pleasantries with George, and chats with Nico.

The hours quickly pass, and they enjoy a pleasant day, and Harry catches fish beside George, while the boy entertains Ruth with stories of his school friends, and his father's failed attempts to windsurf.

"My Dad's clumsy," Harry overhears him saying to Ruth. "He couldn't even stand up on it, and he kept falling off. He's terrible at football, too. He has two left feet. And he kicks with his left foot. No decent footballer ever kicked with his left."

"Diego Maradona," Ruth replies.

"What?"

"Diego Maradona was a left-footer."

"I didn't know you knew anything about football, Ruth." Harry is shocked, rather than surprised.

"Everyone knows about Maradona."

"I didn't," Nico says, and he and Ruth laugh lightly, sharing the joke.

Harry watches the two of them, feeling saddened that he and Ruth hadn't been brave enough to get together years ago, when they first noticed one another. Perhaps they could have been married by now. Ruth would have been a wonderful mother to their children. He has to shake himself out of his melancholy. This is not the time for regrets; they still have a whole future ahead of them.

When they get back to the marina, George invites them for dinner, but Ruth thanks him, saying she and Harry have plans for the evening. She also insists that George and Nico take home all the fish. When they part at the marina, they know that this will be the last time they see one another.

"Why did you lie to him?" Harry asks, as he drives his hire car out of the marina car park.

"It wasn't a lie. We do have plans. We have to go to bed early, and make love."

Harry smiles, and reaches across to grasp her hand. "I like that plan, Ruth."

"Besides, I think George was trying to come on to me, and I don't like that, especially when it's clear I'm with you."

"I didn't appreciate it either."

"No kidding. There were times today I was afraid you would punch George. That time when he touched my arm when he offered me more wine …... Harry, I could see the steam coming out of your ears."

"I hadn't thought of myself as being jealous …... I don't think I am, but …..."

"You're jealous because he's younger than you, slimmer than you, is quite handsome -"

"Alright, alright. No need to rub it in."

"I will never give you cause to be jealous."

Harry had parked the car in front of the cottage, and has turned off the engine. "I know," he says, looking into her eyes.

"Then …... why the histrionics?"

"I suppose it's because …..."

"What?"

"When compared with younger, fitter men, I feel …..."

"What, Harry?"

"I feel …... insecure …... inadequate."

"Thank you," Ruth says, and she leans across the consul, and kisses him on the mouth.

"What was that for?"

"For being honest with me. It's a very good start. We're going to be alright, Harry."

"I'm planning on us being much better than alright."

"Good. So …... what do you think about my plans for us tonight?"

"I heartily approve of your plans."

They leave the car, and walk up the pathway to the front door of the cottage. They don't touch, because they each know that after dinner there will be quite a lot of touching.

That night, they follow Ruth's plans, and they both agree that her plans were a very good idea. They fall asleep, their naked bodies still covered in a sheen of sweat, their hands linked on the mattress between them. The night is still and silent, and the moon shines through a gap in the curtain. They are very content.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: This is the penultimate chapter. Final chapter will probably be up quite soon after this.**_

* * *

><p>"Your last relationship …... when was it, and for how long?"<p>

It is three days later, and they are lying in bed, under just a sheet. The conversation had begun when Ruth had pointed out that as well as she knew Harry at work, she knew little about him personally, and that that needs to change. Harry had responded by suggesting that Ruth ask him any question she likes, and he will answer truthfully.

"Not just a casual shag," she had qualified. "I mean a relationship."

"That's easy. It was Gillian Richards, a section chief from 6 – she's now working in the private sector – and it was my longest relationship outside my marriage." He glances across at Ruth, and she is watching him carefully. "It lasted …... around eight months, and it was in 1995. Now it's your turn."

"Did you ….. love her?"

"Ruth …... I don't think I really loved anyone outside my immediate family until I began loving you. Most of my …... women …... were convenient for me. They were good in bed, and they didn't ask awkward questions. Your turn."

"That's a bit …... cold."

"You know me, Ruth. That's how I am."

"You're not cold towards me. How were you with Gillian?"

He turns on his side to face her. "I can't remember, and that's the truth. It no longer matters. Your turn."

"Very well. I guess that would be …... Tom Bellis …... 2002, just before I joined Section D. He was one of the reasons I wanted to leave GCHQ."

"How long?"

"Maybe three months. I can't remember."

"And did you love him?"

"Harry! I barely knew him. Of course I didn't love him. I might have thought I did, but that was because I wanted to justify going to bed with him. He was gorgeous, but he was also self-centred and egotistical."

"So you see?"

"No. I don't see."

"Past relationships are just that," he says quietly, his mouth close to her ear. "They are part of our past, and they can't affect the present unless we allow them."

"Why do I feel that you're making a point?"

"Because I am. Dredging up the past serves no useful purpose."

Ruth is quiet, so again, Harry follows her line of sight. She is staring at the ceiling, chewing her lip. "I just ….. I'm curious."

"Why?"

"Because ….. I'm afraid ….."

"Of what, Ruth?"

She turns to face him, the worry line between her eyebrows deep and furrowed. "That I won't measure up."

"_Jesus_, Ruth!" Harry rolls on to his back, and places his palm over his eyes in frustration. He then removes his hand, and turns towards her, taking his weight on his elbow. The sheet falls away to expose the line of light brown hair which runs from his navel to his pubic hair, as he places his face close to hers. "You outshine every woman I have ever loved – and that includes my mother. As wonderful as she was, you are the sun to her moon. You are my everything, Ruth. It is impossible to compare you with the women I have been with before, because you are in a different universe altogether. You are the most loving, warm, compassionate, selfless – not to forget sexy – woman I have ever known -"

He is interrupted by the ringing of a mobile phone from on top of the beside cabinet.

"That's my work phone," he says, suddenly pulling away from Ruth and sitting up. He picks up the phone, and checks the caller ID. "I have to take this."

She nods. "It's just after 8 o'clock in London. It must be important." She lies back, amazed by how different her life has become, and hoping she doesn't somehow muck it up.

"Harry Pearce," he barks into the phone. Ruth is admiring by how easily he slips back into his Grid persona.

* * *

><p>Although Ros had told Harry to wait until his leave is over before heading home, he considered it poor form were he to be lying around on a beach in Cyprus with his lover, while his team are having to deal with the aftermath of another death on the team.<p>

"It's alright, Harry," Ruth had said. "I can fly back on my own in a day or two."

"Absolutely not. I made a promise to you, and I'm keeping it."

Ruth managed to find them seats on a flight to London the day before they'd planned to fly home. She flew as Emma Chambers, since her papers in her real name are still locked in Harry's desk drawer on the Grid. Harry is quiet on the flight home, and Ruth reads, allowing him space for thinking.

Malcolm meets them at Heathrow, and drives them straight to the Grid. He is happy to see Ruth, and blushes when she gives him a hug.

"How is everyone?" Harry asks, as Malcolm skillfully guides his car through the late afternoon traffic.

"Still in shock. She wasn't terribly popular with the younger ones, but no-one wished this on her. I was the only one she'd …... confided in, although I still don't know why. I couldn't stand the woman."

"She hadn't said a word to me," Harry says quietly, wondering when it was he'd allowed his personal life to interfere with his duty to his team members.

When Malcolm, Harry and Ruth enter the Grid it is just after four o'clock, and they are joined by Ros, who explains that Lucas has taken Ben to meet one of his assets, and Jo has gone home early.

"She had a bump on her head, poor pet."

"Serious?" Harry asks, immediately concerned.

"She'll be right as rain. A crack on the head never hurt anyone."

In Harry's office, Harry and Ruth sit side-by-side on the sofa, while Ros and Malcolm bring chairs and sit opposite.

"It's good to have you back, Ruth," Ros says quietly, and with apparent sincerity. "Nothing's been quite the same since you left."

Ruth nods and smiles her thanks, while Harry sits back, his hands on his thighs.

"So fill me in," he says, looking from Malcolm to Ros.

"Shall I start?" Malcolm says, looking at Ros, who nods. Malcolm coughs into his hand before he begins. "Eight weeks ago, Connie confided in me."

"Wait a minute," Harry interrupts. "You've known about this for eight weeks?"

"Only the background details, and Connie asked me to keep that to myself. I couldn't ….. betray her trust. She'd been having severe headaches, and blurred vision, and had begun to experience moments when she'd be grasping for a word, and it would be just beyond her reach. I suggested she see a doctor, and as reluctant as she was to do that, I kept checking on her, so she eventually made an appointment with her own GP, who sent her for scans. They found she had a brain tumour – the very aggressive kind. She was given only months to live."

"But …..." Harry says, "...what has this to do with her death? She died in her home …... of a drug overdose."

"It was self inflicted," Ros chips in. "She committed suicide."

"You're sure about that?"

"Positive. Lucas and I then went through her flat, and we found …... evidence that she'd been ….. interacting with the Russians."

"Why would she leave that lying around?" This from Ruth, who is sitting up with a straight back, and forming a picture of the dead analyst.

"My theory, for what it's worth," Malcolm chimes in, "is that it was her version of a suicide note. Like … this is what I've been doing, and combined with my illness, I can't go on."

Harry has been sitting, listening, his head turning to face each person who speaks. Now he sits back and frowns, his eyebrows drawn together. "Could it have been a setup?" he asks. "Staged …... to make it look like a suicide, including the evidence of her Russian connections."

"Harry, you must know about her love of all things Russian," Ros says quickly. "You were always ribbing her about it."

"Ribbing is not quite the same as an open accusation."

"I think we should wait until the autopsy report." Ruth's voice is clear and strong, and she cuts through the interchange between Harry and Ros. "Then ….. if the results support what Malcolm is saying, then …. the report you write, Ros, can support that. Malcolm …... do you realise that she may have been playing you? It's possible that the brain tumour may have been a ruse, a cover for something else."

"Like what?" Ros sounds annoyed.

"I'm not sure, but perhaps she saw the end coming, or perhaps she saw her activities being exposed, and she wanted to have another reason for taking her own life."

"So why leave evidence lying around?" Malcolm asks.

"The evidence may have been planted after her death. She may have put it there herself to look like it had been carelessly placed by someone else. Something tells me that Connie wanted a dramatic end to her life, and to leave behind a mystery. When is the autopsy report due?" Ruth looks at Ros.

Before the end of business today," Ros answers, "which is within the hour."

Forty minutes later, a sealed manilla envelope is delivered to Ros Myers at her desk. She picks it up and heads to Harry's office, where Ruth and Harry are sitting – he in his office chair, and she in a chair across the desk from him – and talking.

"I thought I should open this in front of you," Ros says, as she pulls another chair to the desk, and sits next to Ruth.

Inside the envelope is an autopsy report, which she hands to Harry. In a small padded bag within the manila envelope is a micro chip, the kind which people have embedded under their skin. The note with it explains that it was retrieved from under the skin behind Connie's right ear.

"Bloody hell," Ros exclaims. "She'd have to have been in with the Russians to have done something as covert as this. I think this is Malcolm's territory," and she leaves the office, micro chip in hand.

Meanwhile, Harry is reading the autopsy report, his face grim. When Ros returns he tells she and Ruth that Connie had been truthful about her brain tumour. "The very worst kind, apparently. Aggressive and fast growing. She could have had no more than three months to live." He rubs his chin. "I can't believe I didn't see the signs."

"I noticed her squirrelling herself away more than usual," Ros comments, "but that's what analysts do …. no offense meant, Ruth."

"None taken." Ruth looks across towards Harry, and he has lifted his eyebrows to her.

Harry receives an email prompt, so he opens it. "Malcolm has sent the contents of the micro chip." He scans the email, his brow furrowed. "Interesting," is all he says.

"Would you like me to leave so that you and Ros can discuss it in private?"

"Don't be so bloody silly," Ros retorts. "I'm assuming you're once again our esteemed senior analyst. You'll need to hear this."

Ruth stands, looking across the desk at Harry. "I'll go now. I have to settle in, and you can come by later and tell me anything I need to know about this."

Harry accompanies Ruth out of his office, and to the doors of the Grid. He looks around him before leaning in to kiss her. "It's her suicide note."

"On the micro chip?"

Harry nods, kisses her again quickly, and then turns and walks back to his office. Ruth leaves, hoping he will visit her later at her new flat, but knowing it is also possible he will be working into the small hours.


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N: This is the final chapter of this fic. Thank you to readers, followers and reviewers. And I'm sorry about what I did to Connie. I think in every fic in which I include her, I have her die in a different way. Oh well ...  
><strong>_

* * *

><p>Ruth's flat is a former MI-6 safe house. It is clear once she opens the front door, dragging her holdall behind her, that Harry has had someone give the place a quick clean and a coat of paint. She can smell the fresh paint, and there are even fresh flowers in a vase on the small table just off the kitchen. No doubt Malcolm has had something to do with that. Upstairs she finds a good sized bedroom with a double bed, and another bedroom, smaller than the first, which is the perfect size for an office. A bathroom and toilet is squeezed between the two bedrooms. Whilst it may be a long way from the The Four Seasons, it will do her for a few months …... until she and Harry decide what and where their future will be, and whether they will spend it together.<p>

The discussion about where she would live once she returned to London had become heated. Harry wants her to live with him, while she would like to live in her own space for a while …... just until she again feels like Ruth Evershed.

"Harry, I've been Emma for over a year now, and before that I was Rachel. I need to be …. just me. I need to do that before I can join my life with yours. I don't wish to simply exist in your shadow."

He had backed down then, but she could see he was not pleased. There was a protective and possessive streak in Harry where she was concerned. As much as she rather liked that, she also felt irritated by it. She is aware that he carries a lot of guilt around her having gone into exile alone, and he is trying to ensure that it never happens again. He believes he has to atone. There is an old-fashioned quality to Harry's love for her which will need honing a little before they can live together without small things escalating into major issues.

At ten o'clock, Ruth rings Harry, and he answers on the second ring. "Where are you?" she asks.

"Try your front door. I was about to knock when my phone rang."

She opens the door to a rather tired looking Harry, his own holdall in his hand. "Can I come in?" he asks, and she can hardly say no ... doesn't wish to say no.

"I only have canned tomato soup …... and I can make you toast. I've already eaten."

They sit at the table while Harry eats. He is ravenous …... as well as tired.

"Would you like to stay the night?" she asks, her resolve to spend time alone falling away at the sight of him. Maybe her decision to live alone for a while is also little more than a last burst of independence before she commits herself to being with him. Maybe it's a silly idea. Still, now she's here, she needs to be here – her own place, with her own address, and her own identity – just until she again feels settled.

Once Harry finishes eating, Ruth makes them a pot of tea, and over mugs of tea, he tells her about the contents of the micro chip.

"It's potentially explosive, but we can't act on it. We can only keep our eyes open. During the past year she's had contact with three members of the FSB. They approached her, but her history was already known to them. She recently heard from an FSB agent called Sasha Gavrik. His father was my opposite in Russia, and his mother …..."

Ruth waits, sensing discomfort in Harry, as he stops speaking to take a deep breath. His eyes dart up to hers, and then just as quickly he looks away.

"What? What is she?"

"She was a double agent back during the cold war. I …. she was ..."

"Your lover?"

"Yes. On and off for ... a while."

"While you were married?"

"Yes." Harry's voice is so quiet that Ruth can barely hear him.

"Harry …... so long as she no longer is, and that you're not still carrying a torch for her, then …... I don't see the problem."

He looks up at her – a direct look this time – and smiles into her eyes. "Thank you, Ruth."

"For what? You have a past. I already knew that. So long as it stays in the past. Did Connie's suicide note mention her?"

"Only that we should be very wary when dealing with any member of the Gavrik family."

"She meant _you_ should be wary …... didn't she?"

Harry nods, still gazing into her eyes. "It's you I love, Ruth. She was an unwise passion I pursued for far too long almost thirty years ago."

"Thirty years is a long time."

"It's a very long time. I'd forgotten about her."

"Was the Russian connection the reason Connie took her life?"

"Partly. She'd got herself in too deep with the Russians, and they wanted more of her. Namely, Sasha Gavrik asked her to provide him with details of my life – names of friends, lovers, associates, my day to day movements, details about my contact with other agents, and a list of my assets and their contact details. When it came to the agents and assets she refused. My suspicion is that she'd already provided them with information about current operations within Section D, and she believed she'd given enough, so they threatened her instead. No doubt, torture would have been involved, and Connie is no longer young. It would have been a very painful death. Then she received the results of her last brain scan, and it was the last straw. She's – she _was_ – an analyst, and she needed her brain for her work. She saw no reason to go on. It was either wait for the Russians to kill her, or take her own life."

Ruth cannot think of anything else to say on the subject. At least Connie's death was not because she – Ruth – was about to step into her job in Section D.

Ruth has already showered, so she gets into bed and waits for Harry while he showers and then dresses for bed. When at last he lifts the duvet and climbs in beside her, she can almost hear his joints creaking. He has always suffered terribly whenever one of his team has been taken, carrying the weight of the responsibility of the death on his own shoulders. After he shuffles across the mattress to lie close to her, he sighs as his head hits the pillow.

"I'll miss you when I get home to my house," he says at last.

"I know …... and I'll miss you just as much."

The ensuing silence is heavy with his thoughts. It is clear he doesn't wish them to be living apart. Ruth takes a few minutes to formulate her thoughts so that they are clear.

"I don't wish for us to live apart any more than you do," she begins, "but I _have_ to do this, Harry. I need to do it. I know you think I've lived on my own for long enough, but for the past two years I've been running …... and living a lie. I have to fit into my own skin again, and as much as it pains me to say this, I have to discover whether I genuinely love you and want to spend my life with you, or …... whether I am grateful to you for rescuing me. That's me being honest …... with you."

Ruth turns to look at Harry, and he is gazing across at her, his eyes pained. She knows that her honesty has hurt him. She knows that he loves her deeply, like no-one before him has loved her. She knows he would go to the ends of the earth for her, climb mountains for her. She just has to make sure that she has a matching level of commitment to him. She believes she has. To kid herself into believing she has would be less than they both deserve.

She then reaches across and kisses him on the mouth. The kiss is long and tender, and she puts everything she has and can be into that kiss, as he wraps his arms around her, drawing her closer.

Harry knows that he must again wait for Ruth. He wants to marry her tomorrow, but he also accepts that Ruth may never want to marry him, even if she decides to live with him. He is almost wholly certain she will eventually move in with him, and commit herself to him. Her time in exile has unsettled her, leaving her feeling vulnerable and exposed. He wants to be the one to protect her, to keep the bad people from her door, but equally he knows that she has to come to any decision she makes on her own, without his input.

In the meantime, all he can do is love her, and he is sure he is rather good at that. When the kiss ends, Harry disengages from her, and rolls onto his side to face her. He sees that her eyes are still open, and she is watching him. He smiles into her eyes, and she smiles back.

"I'm glad you're here, Harry ….. with me."

"I'm glad, too."

"It will be …... lovely to wake up in the morning and see you lying in bed next to me."

"Good."

"Is that all you can say?"

"It will be good to be here with you in the morning. Is that better?"

"Marginally."

"Goodnight, Ruth."

Her reply is to grasp his hand under the duvet, and lace her fingers through his. For now, that is enough. It will have to be.


End file.
